


Where the River Meets the Sea / Où le fleuve se rejoint à la mer

by Noscere



Series: From Sea to Sea [1]
Category: XCOM (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asian-American Character, Drabble Collection, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-14 01:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14125074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noscere/pseuds/Noscere
Summary: A home is a people and a place. For Lily Shen and the Commander, where is home, when home is divided by an ocean and an alien dictatorship?(Stories from the Avenger and the Commander ofThe Sum of Our Sin(x), because Lily can't be everywhere and does not want to be everywhere in that pandemonium.)





	1. Ghost in the Porcelain

Her childhood was filled with the rites and rote of western Catholicism ( _hushed prayers transitioning easily from French into Cantonese, consecrated bread transformed and consumed, click click click go the jade rosary beads between father’s fingers_ ), but the night belonged to tales of her eastern motherland.

Though her parents had fled because of the red tide ( _wasn’t red supposed to be lucky?_ ), they carried their stories to the new shores. As she lay on her mattress, crammed against her parents’ bed in their small _quartier chinois_ apartment, her mother would sing, and her father would tell her stories. 

_Nuwa_ _came to earth before there were people_ , Father told her in shushing Cantonese. _She grew lonely, and decided to make copies of herself. She went to a pool, and gathered up the soft mud. She carefully molded the mud into figures in her form. When they touched the earth, they became the first people: the nobles and the rich._ She would settle back into her threadbare covers, donations from their church, to flee the chill that permeated wintry Montreal. Her father would smile, famine-carved cheeks now filled out with life, and tucked her in as he continued. _But Nuwa grew tired, and the Earth was still empty. She dipped a cord into the mud, and swung it around. The drops of mud flew in every direction, and when they touched the ground, they became the poor and the weak.  
_

_Man was made in His image, formed from dust_ , her father said. _But the intent is the same. We are vessels of clay, for something greater. A soul, granted by the Lord, or a spirit, breathed in by a goddess. Stories repeat themselves. That is what you should take from the legends of our ancestors’ home._

 

The Commander is older now, though not necessarily wiser. As she pulls herself upright by clinging rather ungainly to the headboard, she is thankful that there are no mirrors to show her the evidence of a traumatic surgery. Her body aches in ways she did not feel in the twenty years that have apparently passed since she lost the Invasion. 

She looks down at fingers untouched by age. There are no liver spots dotting her hands, no stamps to mark the passing of years. Her veins lie smooth and flat under battle-worn skin instead of popping up like canyons carved by wind and rivers. She has been preserved, like a porcelain figure in some dusty cabinet.

( _Or as it turns out, a red spacesuit. Wasn’t red supposed to be lucky?_ )

Time was not as generous to Bradford. The years have weathered him: a scar lancing up his cheek, wrinkles carved into his skin, permanent frown lines etched into his mouth. He is cracked in ways the Commander cannot see, but she can guess by the way he walks and commands in her stead.

She is aware that returning to consciousness after an invasive surgery is a slow process. Her body requires gentle treatment to speed her recovery. But her Central Officer’s words linger in her head. _“Not sure what you remember, but a lot’s changed. Did the best I could, but the last 20 years…”_

The Commander’s parents are surely dead now: no human born in the 1940s could still be alive today, not when they lived through a famine. Then again, she did condemn her hometown to flame during the days of the invasion… and as durable as her parents were, to survive the persecution of Christians during the Revolution, to flee to Hong Kong and find safe harbor in Montreal, the Commander knows that her parents were not resistant to fire. The same goes for the rest of her family: her brother, her niece, her sister-in-law, her husband…

She tucks that thought away. Grief can come later. For her, it has been a month since his death, but the world has marched on to the beat of twenty years. The Commander drags herself out of bed and is grateful that no one comes running when she lands on her face. Her limbs are stiff, unused to the forces of walking acting. Her joints crumble like dry clay as she maneuvers herself into a sitting position.

( _Step one: sit up. A small victory… but a victory nonetheless._ )

As the Commander catches her breath, she finds a tablet tucked beside her bed. She touches the front. A notification pops up.

> _Summary of events since recapture of asset, authorized by C.O. Bradford_

A second one pops up.

> _No time for bedrest, huh? – C.O. Bradford_

The Commander smiles. Her second knows her well.

 

The familiarity is not enough to shake her unease as she swipes her fingers across the screen. She is acutely aware of the heaviness in her digits, as if wet clay had been poured into the ends. This body belongs to her, and yet it does not, as if twenty years had worn away at the threads tying her soul to this mortal shell.

_We are made in their image_ , she thinks as she flicks through the bodycam feed from Operation Gatecrasher. The trooper that Bradford killed has a face that is too flat and a brow that is too wide, but it is unmistakably human in origin. _Gods pick forms that resemble themselves. Or is it the other way around? Have we shaped our gods to look the way we do?_

She stifles a giggle as she remembers paintings of Jesus, done in the traditional Chinese art style, hanging from the walls of her neighbours’ homes. _Chinesus_. Though Jesus was probably not Han Chinese ( _did the Silk Road reach Bethlehem?_ ), the art style did its best to make him look the part.

Up to date on XCOM’s current situation ( _back to square one, but at least there’s only two dead this time around_ ), the Commander looks around for clothes. The medical gown that hangs loosely off her form is a garment for the wounded, and she may be twenty years removed from this world, but she is not erased yet.

The thought keeps catching in her head as she looks around for a closet. The Commander even taps the assault rifle over her headboard ( _space is a premium in the barracks, but this was a stupid place to look_.)

_Twenty years_ , goes the refrain in her head as she feels the assault rifle. It’s a display piece, too old and unmaintained for war. _Twenty years of decay and neglect._

She breathes in. The Commander is acutely aware of the feeling of her fingers on the assault rifle that features prominently over her headboard. There is a disconnect between _touching_ the rifle and _sending_ the message ( _cold steel, rust, this is an antique that has been unmaintained_ ) to her brain. A spirit inhabits her mortal shell: her soul has disassociated itself from the body she once called home. 

The Commander shakes herself, and pulls her hand away. She notices there are no weapons laid out for her. She didn’t really expect a C7A1 rifle to survive the twenty years, but it would have been something familiar. Instead, she is an antique thrust out into the spotlight, to be appraised and evaluated. Once she steps out of the stillness of her quarters, it will not be just her capability as a military engineer up for assessment. She is the Commander who failed the first invasion.

( _Do they blame me? They should_.)

There are some high standards that she must meet: she, who is made of clay and mud, thrown into a world that does not care for people like her. And why would the world care? She is a testament of a failure, made in flesh and bone. 

Had it been another Commander – perhaps white, or black, or male – were it another standing in her place, would they wonder about the disjunction between their creator and their mortal form? She doesn’t know if a Hispanic Commander would have won the invasion – and if they did, she should go hunt them down and hand this timeline to them – but somehow, the Commander sincerely doubts that the aforementioned commander would think about _Nuwa_ and Jesus in the same run-on thought.

They are made in their creators’ form. The Commander hopes that she is not a reflection of hers.

( _Maybe the painkillers are affecting my brain more than I thought._ )

The Commander finally finds clothes in a closet off to the side. She pulls the underclothes out first: somehow, they are a pristine white. Someone must have bleached them. She goes for her uniform shirt next: it’s a carbon copy of Bradford’s shirt, except the collar and shoulders are a bright Hologlobe blue. A psychological thing, to establish her role as one similar to Bradford’s.

There is no mirror, but she does not need one to see that her skin is as pale as porcelain. Gone is the tan from Afghanistan. She hasn’t been exposed to the sun. That rules out being mind-controlled and made to do forced labor by the alien overlords. Her veins are still green beneath her skin. She hasn’t been injected with _Dieu seul le sait_ nanomachines and whatnot. Maybe the Commander should have let Vahlen explore their specimens in greater detail; it would have given them an edge if XCOM could have mastered Meld. And this is the first time she has thought in French, which means the aliens have not tinkered too much with her brain.

She belts the pants around her hips, and tries not to frown in dismay. Her thighs are not thick with muscle, and her abdomen is flat and unmaintained. She prided herself in taking care of her body ( _made in His image, a gift from her parents_ ) despite all the abuse it had withstood.

It seems there are many things that need fixing, and they begin with her.

There’s a ribbon set aside for her, dangling from the sole shelf in the closet, some scrap of pale blue fabric torn from a knit shirt. She twists her dark hair and brings it up to the midpoint of her head. She wraps the fabric around her bun to steady it in place. The Commander feels the tight knot of hair: her hair is tight and secured, and her bun projects no more than three inches from her head. That is one remnant of the old world that she can bring into the new. That is one thing she can control in this body of clay.

Time to bring hell on this new world.

 


	2. House of the Rising Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 5 Things ficlet: waking up is one of the hardest things to do. Some people make it easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you work with crippling fear of the future? Write self-indulgent nonsense and ignore the looming responsibilities over your shoulder.

  1. _Insubordination_



 

“Drunk as well?” the Commander asks. “ _Et tu, Brute?_ ”

Bradford raises his head with a groan. “Can you shut up?”

He’s the last one in the bar, left over from the mourners who celebrated Heifetz, Demaio and Rossi’s lives. Heifetz was on the cusp of turning twenty-one, but instead of celebrating with her comrades in arms, she rests in a sandy grave near the Sierra Leone Haven. Demaio, the poor woman, leaves behind a wife and twins. Rossi was forty, and had deserved so much better than an agonizing death by a Muton’s bayonet. They all deserved better than the world that Bradford had made.

The alcohol made the pain quieter. His Commander makes it flare all over again.

The Commander slips his arm over her shoulders, gets one hand below his left arm, and heaves. “I am not your mother, nor am I your minder. Get up.”

Lights dance around Bradford’s head. He represses the urge to vomit all over his Commander.

“Fuck off!” he says without heat.

“You are going to bed,” the Commander says, as she lifts him off the bar stool. “You will sleep this off, and I expect you ready for duty tomorrow morning.”

“Lecture later,” Bradford mumbles as he takes one unsteady step. “No pain now.”

The Commander doesn’t speak until they’re in the quiet of the elevator. Bradford saw her considering the ladders earlier, and is grateful that she has taken some measure of mercy on his aching body. 

“You disappoint me.”

As drunk as he is, his Commander’s words cut him.

“Sorry, sir.”

“I don’t want _sorry_ s,” the Commander says, as the elevator stops at the Bridge level. “I want my Central Officer back.”

The sudden jerk makes Bradford’s head spin so violently that he vomits over himself.

The Commander sighs. “You didn’t eat dinner, did you?” She takes out a handkerchief from her belt and wipes his mouth clean of the stinking amber fluid.

Bradford doesn’t remember much of what happens next. He knows that he loses his shirt to the laundry basket at some point, and then there’s a sponge moistened with warm water dabbing at his chest. At some point, his boots and belt disappear. Then he finds himself in the Commander’s bed, propped onto his side by the few pillows from the sofas, and hears a weary, “ _I swear to God, if I lose you because you choked on your own tongue…_ ”

“’m sorry.” Bradford squeezes his eyes shut. Despite his attempts otherwise, the tears leak down his cheeks. “’m really sorry.”

“Save it,” the Commander says. She stands from his side, and considers him. The Commander heads to the control set, and dims the lights even further. She becomes a specter in the dark, with only the vivid blue down her collar and shoulders to mark her path.

“Good night, Central.” She smooths his hair back. “I will see you in the morning.”

 

The only sign that morning has come is the insistent chime of his alarm. Bradford groans and slaps his arm around, looking for his tablet, but the bed is oddly wide. He opens his eyes despite the pounding headache. Of course. There’s no daylight to greet him, because windows are structural weaknesses and the Commander’s safety cannot be compromised. Also, glass would probably shatter whenever Bradford lands the Avenger.

He sits up slowly, reluctant to leave the soft pillow and dreams of his Commander: warm hands, soft hair rustling against his shoulders, steady presence at his back. Bradford mulls it over. His Commander. At the point, she's one of the only friends he has left. Bradford has a responsibility to his men, and he has failed it by being so drunk that the Commander considered it a possibility that he’d die by choking on his tongue. What a way to go, for a man who has fucked up most of his fifty-five years of life.

Bradford turns his head. On the crate serving as a drawer sits a glass of something pink and orange, like a burnished sunset. Two pills sit beside a second glass, this one containing water.

The Central Officer downs the ibuprofen, following up with the water. He waits for the medicine to work its magic. There’s too much time to think when he isn’t drunk. It’s been two months since the Commander came back. He can feel the change in the world. Shen is chattier, more willing to work with her team. Tygan’s carved a niche for himself with the scientists. The men believe they can take the world back.

He sighs, and puts the thoughts of a future away. Bradford has been assigned PT duty this morning. In this, he cannot fail.

 

“Slave driver,” Beaulieu mutters as he jogs in formation, step-in-step with Suleiman and Van Damme. The sun beats down on their backs, virulently hot even in the early morning rising over the dusty ground.

“You drank too much, you pay the price,” the Commander shoots back as she keeps pace with the pack of soldiers. “Central, how much further?”

“Half a klick,” Bradford says, keeping an eye on Kokkonen. The soldier is lagging behind, and is barely managing to keep her head up. Looks like the drink hit that one particularly hard. “One more lap!”

“We should sing cadence,” Dragunova suggests, surprisingly cheerily considering she was passed out on the floor of the Armory last night.

“Central, you know any good songs?” Georg asks.

“Ooh! Ooh! I know! _I don’t know what I’ve been told,_ ” Rookie Iravani sings, keeping beat to the padding of her feet in the dry earth.

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?!” Gonzalez flails, almost smacking Laghari in the face. “Central never shuts up about it!”

“Hey! Knock it off! You can fight later!” Bradford shouts. It’s hard to talk while he runs, but he will never make the men do something that he wouldn’t. “All right, we’re done!”

The platoon of soldiers falls apart, as if someone had removed the rubber band keeping the men packed together. Bradford takes his tablet from his belt and starts skimming through the Commander’s notes: Imahara would usually be at PT, but she’s currently in the AWC with a nasty hangover bordering on alcohol poisoning… no acetaminophen for Van Damme, because the Templar has an allergy… Tygan finished the vitamin supplements and added them to the smoothies this morning…

“Special delivery,” Shen says as she wheels a cart down the Avenger’s ramp. Glasses within rattle and shake. ROV-R floats over her shoulder, beeping all the while. She yawns as she flips the parking brake. “All right, I’m off. Night, Central. Night, Commander.”

“Goodnight to you and ROV-R, Shen.” The Commander nods at the XCOM soldiers groaning in the dirt. “Central: you take left, I’ll take right?”

Bradford picks up a bottle of ibuprofen. The sun is warm on his Commander’s face, bringing pinks and golds to pale skin.

For a second, he wonders what it would be like to wake up next to her.

He banishes the thought. That's not a thought he wants to have about his _married_ superior.

 _But Montreal burned,_ a horrible thought works its way through his mind, _and so did her family._

“Consider it done,” he says, and goes to tend to Kokkonen. “Hey, soldier, you still alive?”

“I regret everything,” Kokkonen mumbles as she accepts the smoothie.

 

  1. _Exercise_



“100 pushups! 100 sit-ups! 100 squats!” Dr. McCoy barks as he runs through his routine. “10 km running every day! I’m gonna get buff! Or at least, I hope!”

Engineer Andrade laughs and punches the scientist on the shoulder. “Will it help you shoot straight?”

“God, no, I hate guns. Why d’ya think I’m in science?” With a final grunt, McCoy pulls himself up in one last sit-up. His exertion over, McCoy flumps and lays flat on the floor. “Okay… maybe 100 pushups, 10 sit-ups… no squats…”

“Realistic goals are a start.” Bradford finishes applying chalk to his hands. “You need a spotter, McCoy?”

“He’s got me!” Andrade says. “All right, McCoy… let’s… let’s get you to the Mess Hall, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Don’t know how you do it, sir,” McCoy pants. “Why anyone would want to exercise at the ass-crack of dawn…”

“Takes discipline, coffee, and some Elerium,” Bradford says, mentally laughing at the pained expression on the two men’s faces. “Did you learn your lesson?”

“That Elerium isn’t a good substitute for caffeine?” Andrade mutters. “Maybe?”

Bradford shoos them out. “I’m not your dad, you should know better than that. Now go eat!”

“Yes, sir.” Bradford can almost hear the eye-rolling.

He keeps the chuckles to himself as he strips off his shirt, then grabs the pull-up bar. When the base fell in 2015, he passed by too many of his soldier trapped beneath rubble. Bradford knows that he wouldn’t have had the time to rescue them. But he is determined, God forbid the worst should happen now, that he will never leave a comrade in arms behind again.

He enjoys the burn in his muscles as he pulls up. The breath escapes him easily, forced out by the exertion. This is simple work, but it’s honest work. He has maintained his body and kept it ready for war. The aliens might need to pump their soldiers full of drugs and hormones, but Bradford delights in curating his body through natural means.

The Commander walks in, a towel slung over her shoulder, scars shining over arms left bare by her tank top. She stops and watches him. Bradford grins, and shifts his weight to one arm. He begins a set of one-arm pull-ups, conscious of the way the GTS lights shine down on him.

“Enjoying the gun show?” Bradford pulls himself up with a groan. He's gained some weight.

“How American,” the Commander says, heading to the punching bag. Bradford laughs and nearly drops off the bar. The Commander doesn’t notice, as she lays the towel over a nearby bench. “I thought I was visiting the gem show.”

Bradford laughs. “Glad you can see I’m a diamond in the buff, sir."

“I like rough stones. Had a few necklaces with some,” the Commander says, squaring her shoulders. Her hands are already taped up. She strikes the bag and it swings out in an arc. “But you, Central, hardly need polish.”

The Central Officer stops showing off and begins to throw himself into his routine once more. “Don’t quite follow, sir.”

“How should I put it, Central?” Her fists snap up and contact the punching bag with a satisfying _thunk_. “If you were a diamond, I’d gladly wear you in a ring.”

“Careful, Commander, if you pump up my ego too much, I won’t need the engines to get the Avenger off the ground.”

She laughs and works the bag for a few more minutes.

“It doesn’t hurt to give praise where praise is due,” she says.

Bradford drops from the bar and grabs his towel to wipe off the sweat. “No,” he agrees, admiring his Commander’s form as she ducks and weaves around the punching bag, “it certainly doesn’t. Morning, Commander.”

“Good morning, Central.”

 

  1. _Duty_



 

“Haven under assault in the Philippines,” Bradford says as the Commander hurries down the stairs. Her hair is still down, and her shirt is rumpled, a far cry from the normally pristine Commander patrolling the bridge. “Not normal for ADVENT to strike at 2 AM. They’re wising up.”

“We’ll deal with it later. Let’s fly,” the Commander says, already pouring over the site-reps and mission terrain data. "Shen, I need you up. We need to resupply the Dragon Rounds, the Viper King is likely to make an appearance–"

 

Dawn rises red and bloody. But the Haven is saved. ADVENT is thwarted one more time. 

The Commander talks with the wounded, accepts the thanks of the Resistance, and makes plans with the leaders to relocate the survivors until the Skirmishers can rebuild their homes. Bradford works on directing Skirmisher aid to lift rubble off the wounded and rooting out the last of the invaders. Chryssalids are living land mines, and he won’t leave a Haven until the last of the beasts are charring on a fire.

At some point, after sending Lanz off to be triaged, he finds himself in the Hangar with the Commander. Loose locks of hair hang over her shoulders, dangling from the messy bun perched on the nape of her neck. Deep purple shadows mark the underside of her eyes. There’s blood staining her sleeves; not her own, but from triaging the wounded.

There’s a message beeping away on his tablet, something about a Haven leader wanting to yell at the Command staff for not coming early enough. Bradford knows he’ll have to confront it some time. But now, with the rising sun silhouetting his partner, the Commander is one of the best things Bradford has seen.

“Look who the dump truck left over,” Bradford says, garnering a weary laugh from his partner.

“Oh no. I’ve been exposed.” The Commander yawns. “Pardon me. After my shift, I will finally get the chance to sleep.”

Bradford shakes his head. “You had two hours of sleep. To bed with you.”

“I’ll deal with the Haven leader,” she says. “He can’t say much to hurt me.”

The Central Officer internally winces. When XCOM fails to perform to the Resistance’s expectations, his alcoholism is a favorite target for the wounded and weary. But the Commander is quite tired, and swaying in place as she stands…

“I’ll shake for it,” he says.

“Best of one,” the Commander says, holding out her hand.

Bradford loses.

The Commander masks a yawn behind her hand. “I’ll see you afterwards. Mox, Barros,” she says, touching her headset, “I need you in the Hangar to act as security. Don’t worry, you’ll get to sleep in later.”

 

An hour later, as the sun is bright and blazing in the morning sky, Bradford finds the Commander passed out over a sofa in the Living Quarters. Fresh bruises mark her face. Her soldiers tiptoe around her, unwilling to speak louder than a whisper.

“Haven Leader Yoingco got a swing at her,” Barros says, looking askance as she intercepts Bradford's course. “We checked the Commander over, and she doesn’t have a concussion.”

“We managed to subdue him, sir,” Mox says, “but not before…”

Bradford sighs. Why does the Commander insist on putting herself into unnecessarily dangerous situations? “Understood, soldiers. Go rest.”

They nod, and let him pass.

“Up.” Bradford raps his knuckles against the sofa. “Let the men have their space back.”

The Commander mumbles something in French, and turns over in a move that bears an uncanny resemblance to an undercooked pancake being flipped on the griddle.

“You can have your five more minutes in your bed.” Bradford sighs and gets his arm around the Commander’s shoulders. “Come on, up. Just to the Quarters.”

“No, you get quartered,” the Commander says, but rises to her feet. She leans against him, her weight pressed into his side as they walk up the stairs. 

Despite all that has happened today, it’s a comforting reminder. Bradford feels for her pulse in the wrist dangling by his hand. They’re still alive. They’re still fighting. The war has not ended yet, but there are people still worth fighting for.

The Commander kicks off her boots the minute she enters her Quarters, and proceeds to face plant onto the bed.

Bradford undoes the laces of his boots and steps out of them. The Commander hates _outside shoes_ in her room. “Need any help getting your armor off?”

“Come to bed,” she says. "Could use a friend now."

The Central Officer smiles, and shakes his head. “Duty first, sir.”

She nods – at least, Bradford thinks she does, because the blankets scrunch up beneath her. The Commander sits up long enough to shuck her armor, shirt and bra, and trade them for a fresh set of clothes. Bradford helps her undo the belt and tug off her pants. She draws the blankets up around her, and for a moment, Bradford considers ditching his responsibilities to crawl into bed beside her.

The Commander presses a kiss to his hand. “Thanks for helping me out, Central,” she says, before settling in against the pillows.

Bradford strokes the loose strands of hair away from her face. Already are her eyes closing.

“Morning, Commander,” he says, and kisses her on the cheek.

 

  1. _War’s End (or will it ever end?)_



The alarm is ringing. Bradford groans and reaches for it. He slaps at the bedside crate, and the insistent chime finally ends.

He looks to his left. That’s unusual. The alarm was meant for his Commander, and yet she has not stirred from her place at his side.

“I know it’s cold out,” Bradford says, lifting the blankets off, “but dereliction of duty doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m tired,” the Commander says, not moving from her side of the bed.

“So we all are.” Bradford cups her face between his hands. “This isn’t what I expect from you. Talk to me, Commander. What’s wrong?”

“Are we worth saving?” she asks. “I’ve seen bandits, slavers and murderers. I’ve seen men kill each other for the slightest scrap of power. I understand the power of grief, but I get beat up for trying to help a grieving Haven Leader. Was it worth it?”

He presses a kiss to her hand.

“We’ll make it worth it.”

“I am tired of dragging people to their salvation,” the Commander suddenly snaps. She takes her hand away and withdraws into herself. “I’m tired of making people play nice so they won’t go waltzing to their extinction. I’m tired of being the only damn person who cares that millions are dying, who cares enough to put away her damn prejudices and _work together like it’s kindergarten_!”

She subsides into silence.

“You’re right,” Bradford says after a moment.

The Commander looks at him. “That’s not something I expected you to say.”

“Why do we care about others who wouldn’t lift a finger to save us?” Bradford offers her his hand. She places her right into his left without hesitation. He continues to speak, tracing the green veins that thread her moon-pale skin as he does. “We led the failed invasion. We’re trying to get nations to work together. We’re in an interracial relationship. The only worse thing we could do is have biological kids.”

The Commander laughs. It sounds more like a repressed scream. “I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for that.”

“So I don’t fight for them,” Bradford admits. “It brings me down. But I know there’s people worth fighting for. I look to our men, to the soldiers we’ve helped raise this past year. I look at Tygan. He could’ve shut up and stayed in ADVENT, but he risked everything to do what was right. I remember Dr. Shen, who gave his life so his daughter could live free. I look at Lily – damn girl never sleeps just to give another soldier a chance at seeing a free tomorrow.” He looks up at his Commander. Tears run down her cheeks. “And I fight for you, Commander. I fucked up this world, and you helped screw it too, but if I need to fight to my last breath to give us another day together, then I will. _Some_ people are worth it. I’ve seen it in every minute we spend together.” He kisses her cheek, and tastes the salt drying on her skin. “I wish you could see what I do. If you let me, I’ll do my best.”

His best friend hugs him, tight enough that it hurts. He wraps his arms around his Commander and feels her heartbeat quiet, as the tension leaks out of her shoulders. They stay together until the second alarm rings.

“Are you ready?” Bradford asks, handing her the tablet.

She turns the alarm off. “Reporting in for duty, Central.”

 

  1. _Routine (should the war end)_



 

He rolls over, and the other side of the bed is cold.

Morning winters in reclaimed and rebuilt Montreal rarely come up pink and gold, but the light that filters through the window ( _inch thick bulletproof alloy, they can never be too careful_ ) is warm unlike the draft coming through the door. Frosted fern patterns curl up the windows, hiding the thick snow banks that blanket the city below. The sun today has banished the cool blues and greys of the buildings, replacing them with warmer hues.

The living room pours into the bedroom, linked by a thick carpet in hues of cerulean and fire lily orange. Not every soldier from the Resistance era has chosen to stay in the business of war. Some have chosen more artistic routes, and Bradford is proud to bankroll them (though he does have some doubts about the quality of said art. The Commander enjoys abstract art more than he does.)

Water runs in the kitchen. The faucet stops singing, and is replaced by the swish of water circling around in a bowl. Water runs and roars once again, as it drains into the sink. The rice cooker chirps. The coffeemaker beeps. All that’s missing is the whine of the kettle to heat water for tea.

The Commander heads out into the living room, clad only in a thin t-shirt and capris. Bradford hides his smirk – that’s one of Shen's gifts, because the Commander wouldn’t buy a shirt emblazoned with a chemistry set and the words, " _If you're not part of the solution, you're the precipitate"_ for herself.

She faces the morning skyline, prickling with lights from other apartments, and begins to stretch.

Bradford admires her form bathed in gold and pink. Even when most of her time is spent behind a desk, the Commander believes firmly in self-maintenance. Her arms are still taut with muscle, and when she brings her right leg up to balance on her left knee, it’s with all the grace of a younger woman. She rolls her shoulders, and brings her arms up into a circle to greet the sun. The Commander easily drops the pose, and transitions into pushups. She runs through a set of 25 reps, then pulls herself into a downward dog. The Commander holds the position until her arms shake. She rises, and begins a routine that Bradford recognizes from her playlist of Chinese calisthenics on her terminal.

 _She’s fire, and grace, and God I'm glad to have made it this far_ , Bradford thinks with a smile.

The effect is ruined once she finishes her workout, because the Commander runs into the bedroom and dives back into bed.

“Hey!” Bradford rubs his chest, the recipient of an accidental smack. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry! It’s cold!” The Commander burrows against him. Any of the formality she would have borne onboard the Avenger is lost in the safety of their home. “Pardon me, I’m just going to steal your heat.”

“You could’ve worn more than a t-shirt and capris.” Bradford pauses as he gives her an appreciative look. “Not that I’m complaining. Why didn’t you put on a sweater?" 

“Who exercises in a sweater?”

“People who don’t like freezing their asses off, that’s whom.” Bradford pauses, a grin rising to his face. “You did it for the aesthetics?”

The Commander grumbles. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

Bradford laughs and throws an arm over her shoulders to pull her close. “You spend too much time with the kids.”

“Damn kids, get outta my mind.” She cocks her head. “You realize the oldest of our soldiers are pushing forty. Some even have children. _Shen_ is forty-one, and you’re in charge of picking the card when we mail her present.”

Bradford rolls his eyes. “It’s all on the schedule. Why else did you hire me?”

“Space heater,” she says. “White noise generator.”

“And I put up with you for this,” he thumps her across the shoulders, “and for breakfast. Oh, and running my XCOM.”

“Excuse me? _Your_ XCOM?”

“I ran the first mission,” he declares, ignoring the outcome of Operation Devil’s Moon, “and I flew the ship. It’s clearly mine.”

“Yes, thank you for flying the ship for my XCOM.” The Commander kisses his cheek. “Why my shoulders?”

“You should get a turn at carrying the team for once."

They laugh. Bradford moves his leg between hers, and immediately regrets it because her capris do not shield him from her cool skin. The Commander throws an arm around his shoulders and presses her face against his chest.

“You know, we can’t fall asleep like this. It’ll get uncomfortable fast,” Bradford says. "I'm sure Shen would have a paper on the physics of this."

“We’ll make it work. Wake me up if the Avatar project somehow resurrects.” The Commander presses a kiss to his shirt, right over his heart, and falls asleep.

Bradford isn’t quite ready to fade into dreams yet. He runs through the schedule in his head as he smooths his hands down the planes of his partner’s body. There are still some eggs in the fridge, from the last time Tygan stayed over. Tygan did not particularly appreciate the _eggs for eggheads_ joke he cracked last time. Once he gets up for good, Bradford will have to start the kettle to make the Commander some tea. He thinks there’s some Chinese bacon which might go well with the rice. Or maybe he can try his hand at fried rice again… but that would involve heading to IGA to pick up some green onions, because the Commander scorns any _cao fang_ without green onions, and that means facing the snowdrifts outside…

The Commander’s grip tightens around his chest.

He kisses her forehead.

 _Some thoughts can be saved for later_. Bradford closes his eyes. _We have all the time in the world._

 


End file.
